


An Insurmountable Distance

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Series: Bringing an Al Dente Noodle to the Spaghetti House [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dave and his Too Tight Breeches, Dave is a dick, Dave is incapable of properly dealing with jealousy, Dirk is a dick right back, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mildly unreliable narrator, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Promiscuity, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, They don't shut up, Unhealthy Relationships, clothed grinding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: “Hello, brother,” a familiar voice drawls from the door to the library, where Dirk prefers to see to his correspondence. Often, Roxanne is in the room with him, reading or practicing her embroidery, which has been improving greatly in the time that he’s been here. He’s several new handkerchiefs to attest to the fact, all of which he makes use of. However, it is not her who’s at the door when he glances up and immediately tenses at the sight of the lanky figure leaning against the frame, indolent smirk firmly in place and eyes hooded.





	An Insurmountable Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quenive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/gifts).



> Definitely didn't use this as an excuse to watch Pride and Prejudice (1998, 2005) again. No sir.

“I hear you have garnered quite the military accomplishments for one so young,” Rose Lalonde’s quietly lilting voice breaks the silence of the enormous drawing room, and amber eyes flick up to meet her gaze, an eyebrow raised in question.

“I simply served my country as I should,” Dirk Strider, Colonel recently appointed and baronet by birth, responds, his voice pitched equally low for such a private affair.

“And changed your surname, as well,” she observes wryly, slim fingers toying with a carefully carved marble chess-piece, gilt-gold accents gleaming in the light of the chandelier that hangs above.

“My reasons for that are my own, sister dearest,” he demurs, watching carefully as she moves the Knight into position- checkmate for her in several moves, should she be playing the gambit he believes. An easy enough task to circumvent it. “Suffice it to say that it is quite difficult to preserve my own reputation as it is, let alone with our brother’s tendency to languish in the gutter at every conceivable moment.”

“And my own status as a spinster and a novelist certainly doesn’t help, I would wager,” she prompts, and Dirk takes a moment to answer, nudging a pawn into play.

“Why, Miss Lalonde, if I did not know better, I should say that you were offended by my actions.” He retorts easily enough, his tone mild enough. “And were I the type to take umbrage at your endeavours, then it would be beyond hypocritical for me to impose my presence upon you and young Roxanne.”

“Young Roxanne, as you deem her, is out in society now, and delighted at your presence, as you very well know. I’m certain that it would break her heart and send her into hysterics, were you to leave before the London season began.” Rose’s voice holds a hint of teasing, the same warm familiarity he recollects from his childhood, and he offers the faintest of smiles in return. She takes his bishop with a rook, and he in turn relieves her of it with a knight.

“I could never inflict such misery upon my dearest sister,” he replies, solemn. “Besides, I find the country here quite to my liking. It’s a shame you do not go to town more often, but I fear I cannot blame you for such an aversion to it. It’s damnably hot in the summer, after all.”

“You do me the kindness of not mentioning the true reason I avoid London, but I am inclined to believe that your own aversion to town stems from more than inclement weather.” Rose is, as ever, wont to meddle and prompt, though Dirk sees no harm in entertaining her in this.

“Certainly, I can neither confirm nor deny those beliefs, nor would I claim to be eloquent enough to convince you otherwise should you be secure in your convictions.” Here, he elects to hedge his bets, and simply moves his queen one square over.

“I would expect no less of you, though I should think that the consistent attempts at avoiding the general populace of London are ill-suited to your crusade of restoring the family’s good name. As is selecting another name for yourself to mask the relation,” a hint of admonishment in her tone, here, and Dirk remains perfectly nonchalant in the face of it.

“Certainly not. I make no attempt to hide my connection to you or Roxy; it’s well known that we are related,” he rebuts easily, and this is true enough. Often has he spoken of his elder and younger sisters fondly, it’s one of the few topics that he allows to be common knowledge.

“I suppose I cannot fault you in that,” Rosalind replies smoothly, navigating his king neatly into check. “After all, you have hosted a few acquaintances here. I had assumed that the small number was originally due to a sense of shame on your part, though I am now beginning to see it was mistaken.”

“Of course. I would not wish to be any more of an imposition on you when you’re already so kind as to host me for the next two months.” A moment of consideration before he offers up a knight as a sacrifice.

“Not at all, dear. We hardly see you as it is, and what else is family for, but to assist you in times of need? Or at the very least provide a place to stay, one consisting of company and warm rooms as needed.”

“Nevertheless, your generosity is greatly appreciated. I find it difficult to remain in one place, even with my own admittedly austere dwellings.”

“So I’ve heard. I must admit to some offense, before I learned of the rather diminutive size of your home. It puzzles exceedingly as to why you selected it.”

“Nostalgia, I suppose. Or simply to discourage visitors,” he answers dryly, offering a small smirk as he moves to put her in check.

“How remarkably unsociable. And yet by my count, we have received one Jacob English several times, and he has received you nearly as many.” By some miracle, Rose moves her king into a far more opportune place.

“We are close acquaintances, but I do not know him nearly as well as to impose my company on the poor fellow for an extended period of time,” he demurs.

“Of course,” she answers coolly as ever, though there’s a hint of an amused smile on her lips. “By the way, dear, I think I ought to forfeit this game. It’s taken more time than I had anticipated, and I do need to ready myself for Lady Maryam’s visit in an hour.”

“We can simply postpone to another day, then,” Dirk answers, rising to his feet. He inclines his head in a bow as Rosalind rises to her feet, adjusting her skirts.

“Certainly. I shall see you at dinner, brother,” she sketches a brief curtsy before bustling out of the room, leaving Dirk to his own devices. It is past time he saw to his correspondence in any event.

\--

“Hello, brother,” a familiar voice drawls from the door to the library, where Dirk prefers to see to his correspondence. Often, Roxanne is in the room with him, reading or practicing her embroidery, which has been improving greatly in the time that he’s been here. He’s several new handkerchiefs to attest to the fact, all of which he makes use of. However, it is not her who’s at the door when he glances up and immediately tenses at the sight of the lanky figure leaning against the frame, indolent smirk firmly in place and eyes hooded.

“Brother,” he repeats the greeting, stiffly. Surely, either of the Lalondes would have offered some form of warning, had they been expecting the other.

“Years since our last meeting, and a simple ‘brother’ is all the greeting that I get?” David Lalonde, upon first sight, appears as unchanged as ever- insolent and brash, with a cutting sense of humour that his plays have become famous for; hair tied back in a tail that went out of fashion decades ago with a tattered red ribbon, breeches and jacket obviously of a fine make, but worn thin and stained from constant use, a single ring on his finger with a ruby glinting darkly in the twilight filtering in through the window.

“I was unaware of there being any other way I should greet you, Mr. Lalonde. And I certainly doubt that crying scoundrel and rake would further any positive sentiment towards me,” Dirk replies smoothly, regaining his composure once more. He dips his pen once more into the small pot of ink, careful, and reapplies himself to writing, if only to serve as a distraction from his brother’s presence.

“Such formality, brother dearest.” A sigh, and the sound of footsteps entering the room, the quiet, definitive thud of the door closing. Dirk still doesn’t look up, preferring to avoid the sort of confrontation that’s surely the only reason David would visit. “What have you busied yourself writing, Colonel Strider? Another love letter to that lieutenant of yours, a relative of Lord English, if I’m not mistaken.”

Two hands flatten themselves on the gleaming wood of the desk he’s sitting at, fingernails neatly trimmed and broad palms calloused where they rest flat against the surface, knuckles flecked with scars. Dirk’s grip tightens imperceptibly on the quill, his jaw clenching. He refuses to give David the satisfaction of looking up, though, even when the other’s impertinence shows and he simply circles the desk, leaning over to read the words Dirk had spent days agonizing over.

“ ‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you’,” his voice is mocking, and it twists the sentiment into something ugly and dark. A heavy hand rests on Dirk’s shoulder, squeezes tight. He can feel the warmth of David’s body at his back, hovering over him uncomfortable and stifling.  “You seem intent upon forcing all those under your tyrannical little thumb to submit to your attempts to make our family respectable,” he drawls out, and Dirk steels himself for whatever the next blow may be. “Purchased a commission with your share of Father’s inheritance, given early, and made quite a name for yourself in the militia. Is that not so, Colonel Strider? Selecting the name of a mother you never knew was quite a masterful stroke, on your part. And ensuring that young Roxanne has a governess, and ‘proper guidance’, all very noble and befitting of a young gentleman. Despite the fact that you do nothing but make the poor girl miserable, and Rosaline chafe at your constant presence. And now, here you are, young lord, writing a love letter to a man who can never give you his heart? A sodomite, certainly, and a fool- even worse for someone who so prides himself on his intellect. You’re no better than the rest of us, in that gutter you so despise.”

Dirk can feel the man drawing closer with each word, until his lips, dry and cracked, are brushing just against the shell of his ear. David’s voice drops lower with each word, each insult a knife between his ribs, and yet it’s nothing that Dirk has not heard the other say before, no slight that he hasn’t faced. After all, his plays are quite famous. But he speaks as if it were sweet nothings to a lover’s ear, murmured between breaths and languid kisses. Quite against his will, he shivers, his eyes closing briefly and throat bobbing as he swallows. Nervous, though he has no reason to be, his heartbeat quickening despite his better judgement as he parts his lips to answer. “I’ve never attempted to make you do something you did not wish to, brother. At six I deemed it a futile task, and at twenty it remains so. Though I’d advise that you find some new material with which to insult me, since you seem to have exhausted your supply- all of which, of course, you’ve already made use of in those plays of yours. Lovely and thoughtless, much like yourself. Thoughtless enough that I fail to see how my private matters are of any consequence to you, as they never have involved you, and nor will they ever. This by your own preference, I believe.”

Keeping his voice even is a task, but one which Dirk applies himself to masterfully as he does everything else. He’s vindicated by the gradual tightening of that hand on his shoulder, the grip tight enough to be almost bruising, but he keeps his tone insultingly flippant as he continues speaking, “In fact, Mr. Lalonde, I fail to see the reason you could have had for calling upon me at this hour, without announcement. It’s highly improper to begin with, though if you were hoping for new material with which to slander my good name, I’m afraid that you won’t garner anything that you didn’t already know. Should this not be your primary motive, however, I will have to confess that I am at a loss as to what you could possibly desire from me.”

“You at a loss? That’s a sight that many, myself included, would pay dearly to see, beloved brother. But you ascribe such sinister motives that I must consider it slander against my own character, is it truly so impossible that I should wish to see my dearest sibling once more?” David shifts, his hand slipping away along with his warmth, and the loss Dirk feels is a frustration unto itself, for it shouldn’t exist to begin with. But the man isn’t going far, he’s indecorously shoving Dirk’s correspondence, letters read and unread, written and half-written, all to the side in a single, misshapen heap, planting himself firmly on Dirk’s desk and looking down at him.

“Just so, I’m afraid,” Dirk replies coolly, flicking his eyes up to meet David’s gaze. It isn’t inscrutable and bored as he may have expected, the perfect illustration of what jaded should be, but it’s heated and a tad resentful, if Dirk’s correct. “Given that you spend most of my childhood attempting to escape the shackles of responsibility, and the entirety of my adulthood doing much the same, it’s near inconceivable to think that you wish to do something as simple as revisit a misplaced nostalgia. Hence, I believe we should cut to the chase, as we’re both very busy men: What is it that you want from me, Mr. Lalonde?”

It’s interesting to watch the man’s face shift, first from that dislike to contempt, a flash of guilt and then- nothing. There it is, that infamous blank mask, the tabula rasa of the face. The surprise is that he was allowed to see any of the emotions at all, though Dirk is inclined to believe that too, is an act, part of the ploy.

“Why is it you must assume that I want anything from you, little brother? What is there that you can give me, that I cannot get for myself?” he arches an eyebrow, unbearably smug, and were Dirk more inclined towards fisticuffs, he’d be sorely tempted to add another bump to that handsome nose.

“Nothing, I’m sure. But if it’s nothing that you want from me, then I suggest that you visit our sisters, and consider whatever social obligation it was that forced you to visit me to begin with, fulfilled." He drums his fingers lightly against the wood, an even rhythm to which he sets his breathing. Careful and deliberate.

“And if I were to say that there was no social obligation that forced my visit to begin with? Seeing as you view my feckless behaviour and general flaunting of said obligations as deviant and shameful, I would consider my task unfinished if there were any expectations on your end of my compliance with societal norms.”

“And yet, hypocritical as you are, you deign to utilize them whenever it suits your ulterior purpose.”

“Such accusations, brother dear, are slanderous against my good name.”

“Or so they would be, if you possessed a good name at all. Though I do not doubt you can recognize slander, given the content of most of your productions; no, the surprise lies in that you seem incapable of coping when it is directed at you.”

“I can cope with a great many things, I assure you of that, little brother.”

“And yet here you are, complaining of every slight against your name I have made, while I bear your libellous acts in silence.”

“Far be it from me to dictate your actions, cowardly as they might be.”

“I see no need to engage with one who has clearly proven that they will lower themselves into the gutter to gather mud to sling.”

“The gutter? Dear heart, I can assure you that I had to look no further than the personal experiences of some of your comrades, along with my own.”

“Your personal experiences with me? Surely, you can refer to imagined events, conceived entirely within your own mind, as such here, given that we both know the truth. Our interactions are non-existent, in short.”

“Then you must categorize this as a dream, for I would certainly call this an interaction.”

“I would classify it as an annoyance, if anything.”

“How the tables have turned with time,” David remarks, cryptic, but he looks away, and Dirk finally feels able to breathe properly again. “But of course, you could not help but age and mature. Even though time has turned you bitter and close-minded, I do believe you were the one who made yourself utterly a disappointment.”

His words cut, more than Dirk would like to admit, but he refuses to show such weakness in front of the vulture that is his brother, always looking for a loose thread to pull at, an open wound to salt. But he is no longer a child, idolizing a man who could never return that affection, no longer a boy of six with tears pricking at his eyes, ones which he refuses to let fall. He is a man grown, a soldier for his country, and he has built himself up with his own two hands- enough such that not even this vengeful relation can tear him down. Dirk straightens his back, meets the man’s gaze with a look of utter disdain. “’Tis a tragedy, to be sure, Mr. Lalonde. But I fear that I have long lost any inclination to make you proud, or even an expectation of a civil conversation.”

“Again with the formality. So stiff you’ve become over time,” he laments in a fit of false histrionics.

“I’m simply treating you as I would anyone else,” Dirk raises an eyebrow, finally turning to face him. “Despite our relation, evidence is abundant that you never desired a brother. And so, I’ve long since renounced you as mine, and your actions make it clear that you’ve done the same of me.”

It’s the first thing that he’s ever said that has managed to shock David Lalonde, Dirk is sure, and he derives an uncharitable amount of satisfaction from the look of ugly surprise that crosses the man’s face. When he speaks once more, his voice is artificially nonchalant, his eyes hard and cold. “Of course. Though I must say that I expected you above such childish behaviour. This renunciation of yours is but a petty fit of fancy, one we both know will pass.”

“On the contrary,” Dirk corrects him icily, “I believe that this is simply a natural conclusion to a barely extant relationship. We do not see each other, nor do we speak, nor exchange correspondence. There is no reason for me to believe that the pattern will not hold, and no reason for you to be upset about this.”

“We are still family by blood,” David points out, his lips curling into a sneer. “And that cannot change, regardless of your little tantrum.”

“Would that it could,” he remarks, deliberately caustic to dig the knife in just that little bit more.

David presses his lips together in a thin line, one which would show displeasure upon another face. Another small victory to which Dirk can privately toast.

“Since we are not brothers, then, I see no need to behave in a civil nor charitable manner towards you,” he speaks, resting his filthy boots against the edge of Dirk’s chair, just near his trousers. Dirk suppresses an instinctual grimace of disgust, curling his fingers tight around the edge of his desk, his knuckles whitening. “And since we are no longer brothers,” David continues, his voice lilting towards that low, syrupy drawl once more as he leans forwards, dangerous close and practically boxing Dirk in, “then this, you should not object to, by your own little code.”

Dirk has already composed a perfectly adroit rejoinder, satisfyingly acerbic, ready on his lips, when David grips his jaw with one broad hand and slams their mouths together. He inhales sharply, his response cut off with an ugly, muffled sound, and his hands scrabble at the desk before making contact with the other’s chest, shoving him roughly off with a disgustingly wet sound.

He can only gape and stare, undignified, but even that luxury is not one he’s offered for long; David is quick to curl a fist in his shirt, yank him forwards.

“What-,” Dirk immediately begins to protest, even as he’s flipped backwards and shoved into the desk, the edge digging into the small of his back. But his words are practically devoured by another kiss, David’s mouth on his own is hungry and demanding, his lips chapped and teeth blunt, clacking against Dirk’s own. He freezes once more, before this blistering outrage kindles in him; this is not something that he can fight by _ignoring_.

He kisses back, and now it’s David’s turn to hesitate as Dirk curls fingers in his hair and pulls to be vindictive, crushes their mouths together in a kiss that’s a declaration of war. He can practically feel the quake of cannons in the air, the shiver of the earth, when David slots their hips together and presses in, the friction too much too soon. Dirk’s teeth finds the man’s lips, bite down hard enough to draw blood in retaliation, and the muffled curse he receives in response sends a thrill of hot satisfaction thrumming through his body.

It is a small victory, but one he’ll take nonetheless; David’s movements stutter for a moment before resuming, grinding against Dirk until he’s practically bent backwards onto the desk, his legs pushed up and apart and his pantaloons far too tight.

“Is this what you let that English boy do to you in the dead of night?” David scrapes his teeth against the shell of Dirk’s ear, just to make him squirm, his fingers digging bruises into his hips. He hisses out a curse, his cheeks flushing with shame, even as his body arches against the press of the other’s, begging for more.

“I fail to see how that involves you,” Dirk manages to say, finally, his voice far too breathy for his liking. He feels more than hears David’s derisive chuckle in return, the sound rumbling in the man’s chest, his breath hot and unpleasant as it fans over his neck and leaves gooseflesh in its wake.

There’s no forthcoming response, though, only the insistent press of David’s erection against his own, a heavy, hard heat that has his toes curling in pleasure, his lips parting quite against his will to issue a low groan.

And then he stops.

Their lips are barely brushing, and there’s a hunger in his brother’s eyes as he hovers over him, Dirk pressed neatly into the desk, pinned like an insect to a board. Their breaths mingle, and Dirk is all too aware of the hot flush crawling across his cheeks, the state of disarray his hair must be in, the press of his cock and the certain darkness of his eyes. All this is noted as David’s lips curl into that same, infuriating smirk as he pulls away.

“I will be waiting in my rooms for you, after dinner,” is all David offers in a casual response, sliding off Dirk, and the desk, in an elegant motion that disrupts nearly everything else on it. He sweeps out of the room with all the grace of a new debutante, the door shutting smugly behind him.

“Bastard,” Dirk says to the empty room, his mouth tasting like residual smoke and old whisky and the copper tang of blood, his length straining in his pants. It feels entirely inadequate.

\--

Dinner is a tense affair.

David keeps up a stream of constant chatter, aided and abetted by Roxanne, though Dirk cannot quite bring himself to discourage the interaction: The two clearly adore each other, conversing with an ease which Dirk had often envied, when he was younger. Though he could never begrudge her his brother’s favouritism; how could he, when he adores her just the same?

Rose speaks, too, interjects with sly quips at their brother’s expense, playing the perfect hostess and diverting any too-sharp barbs from David to Dirk, prompting the man himself into another of his dispassionate rants. Wine stains his lips red, and he eats like a man starving, juices from the meat slicking his mouth as it curls into a smirk, dripping down his chin before he remembers to use a napkin. Dirk looks away from the sight, focusing on the careful scrape of his knife against his plate, the slow savouring of every bite, the hollow feeling in his chest as hot food oozes down his throat.

It drags on to drinks afterwards- tea for himself, spirits for the rest. Dirk prefers not to drink, and he’s silent as a spectre in the corner, watching this facsimile of a happy family. Not, of course, to imply that Rosalind has been anything but welcoming; the realization settles in, bone-deep and weary, as he sips the now-cold and bitter drink. He should not have stayed this long.

The party gets louder, a little more boisterous, and Dirk excuses himself early in a soft murmur to Rose, slipping out of the cozy room and into the cool hallway, lit only by candles dripping wax. The nape of his neck tingles as if he’s being watched. He doesn’t look back.

His rooms are still neat, though his trunks have long since been unpacked, their contents strewn carefully about the space he once lived in as a child. There are small differences, of course, but he finds himself relishing the blanket of silence and the warm, flickering glow of the candles as he lights them. He strips to his smallclothes, forgoes the thought of a bath in favour of donning a loose nightshirt and a dressing-gown, his feet bare on the floor as he begins to pack. Not tonight, but perhaps tomorrow. No later than the end of this week; David is surely planning to stay as long as it takes to torment him further, and although there is still the part of him, long since slumbering, that craves his brother’s attention and approval, Dirk knows that the surest way to truly get under his skin in retaliation is to simply do nothing.

Or perhaps this is simply a reflection on his own cowardice, loathe as Dirk is to use the word to describe himself. The candles dim as night encroaches further, and he only thinks of going to his brother’s rooms once, his fingers just barely brushing against the brass of the doorknob, intricately carved and moulded.

But he doesn’t. David’s words were born of a drunken stupor, or otherwise simply another step in whatever one-sided game he believes himself to be playing. To kiss another man, to make such a brazen proposal is not something that the other would do if it were not in jest, and Dirk has no desire to stumble into that particular trap, to fall prey to the man’s cruel mockery.

He’s just sitting down to pen a note, a letter to excuse his untimely departure, when there’s a pounding at his door. It startles him, enough that he near spills the ink all over the page.

“Dirk,” comes the call, brash and demanding, followed by another loud knock. “Let me in, we were meant to have an appointment. A meeting, for your formal side. So as I can attempt to extricate your cranium from your arsehole.”

A round of sniggering, then silence. Dirk believes, for a full five seconds, that he’s gone. And then it begins again.

“Open the damned door, brother dearest, don’t you know it’s bad form to keep me waiting?” the man hollers, their earlier conversation seemingly forgotten. Dirk bites back a curse under his breath, abandoning the letter in favour of yanking the door open, only to be regarded with David leaning against the nearby wall, insolent as ever.

“Yes, Mr. Lalonde?” he asks, voice clipped with impatience. David’s face is slightly flushed, his lips parted and tugged into a half-smile; his ponytail has been abandoned, blonde locks cascading in a lank mess down to his shoulders.

“We’ve been over that pile of shit,” David brushes it off, straightening up and striding into Dirk’s room as if he belongs there, his gait remarkably even for such a clearly intoxicated man. “But you seem very intent on disowning me as your brother, for reasons unknown. I suppose it’s because you’ve never gotten the opportunity to grow out of throwing tantrums.”

“And you’ve never gotten the opportunity to learn manners,” he retorts, acerbic, but shuts the door behind him. David strolls over to his bed, promptly falling into it with a satisfied grunt and the look of a man who’s gotten precisely what he wants.

“Please. I’m not one of you pampering, simpering fools. I see no reason to parade around pretending to be better than anyone else simply because I was raised to think it,” David scoffs, toeing off his shoes with a dull thud. Dirk presses his lips together, averts his eyes.

“I have never claimed to be superior to anyone else because of my birth, or because of my upbringing. The only thing it has done for me is provide the money required to purchase a commission, but I can assure you that without it, I would have been nearly as well off.” Each word is selected carefully as he walks back over to his desk, folds the note in half and tucks it into a book.

“And there’s the rub!” he exclaims, giving Dirk a sardonic grin before reclining comfortably on the sheets, as if he were part of the pattern. “The money that you make such little out of.”

“Between the two of us, we’re equally privileged. Manners, not money, maketh man,” Dirk responds, though he doesn’t take a seat. He doesn’t approach the bed either, instead lingering like a wraith near the window.

“Don’t quote that crock of shite at me,” David snaps. Mercurial as ever, his eyes are narrowed, and the look he’s giving Dirk is entirely livid disapproval. “I choose not to make use of those manners you so tout because they’re entirely useless to me, whereas you prefer to hide behind formality and conceal your background. Are you so afraid that we’ll besmirch your good name by association?”

“You don’t need _association_ to slander me, as we’ve discussed before,” Dirk spits back, his resolve to remain unreactive dissolving now that he’s faced with the man in person.

“It’s nowhere near as satisfying,” he agrees with a lazy shrug, running a hand through his hair. Dirk’s fingers curl tight into fists at his side, knuckles white and bloodless.

“I’m glad to provide some _entertainment_ for you, then, Mr. Lalonde. Since you seem incapable of producing any original material of your own that does not play into your smear campaign against me. Do you despise me so? Or are you simply envious of my success?” Dirk stares at the man on his bed, jaw tight and shoulders tense, watching surprise and then what would look like hurt, were the other capable of it, play across that face. It vanishes soon enough, replaced with a cold and brittle expression.

“Unlike you, _Colonel_ ,” he spits the title out as if it were the vilest of obscenities, “I have no interest in playing the obedient lapdog.”

“I obey when the orders are correct. Certainly, I would never have listened to you, were you even around to demand it,” Dirk remarks, flippant in a way he doesn’t feel. “And I didn’t obey your poor attempt at a command, earlier.”

“And why is that, when you were so clearly enjoying yourself?” This is coupled with a leer, a deliberate dragging of his eyes down Dirk’s body. David makes a show of it, though he cannot be seeing anything of consequence through the two layers of fabric; nevertheless, it makes Dirk feel cheap, looked at like a piece of meat.

“Perhaps it’s because I would rather lay with a corpse than you,” Dirk offers, perfectly reasonable. “Or perhaps because the only true way to make you react, or feel anything at all, is to deny you what you want. Even if it only stems from a desire to make such an uproar of my proclivities that I end up hanged.”

“Your own carelessness and lack of denial would get you hanged, brother, not any ‘uproar’ as you think that I would cause. Your sodomy is far from my fault.”

“And yet you would add another sin to my list of crimes, in this case?”

“You say that we are not brothers, Colonel Strider. And we both know what it is you do with men that are not your brothers. It must follow, according to your lauded logic, that we must therefore do the same.”

“Your exaggerations of my habits do you no favors, and I am interested in but one who is not my brother.”

“Myself, of course, included. That would be the importance of the much-touted Oxford comma,” David responds, caustic as he crooks a finger to beckon Dirk closer. Dirk goes, unable to truly resist that inexorable pull, that desire to just shut the insufferable man up as best he could, to show him that Dirk is not to be trifled with.

“I wasn’t aware that you were even remotely qualified to give a grammar lesson,” Dirk answers smoothly. He comes to a halt not a few inches away from the bed upon which David is sprawled across, his arms resting loosely at his sides in a careful construct of nonchalance.

“You remain woefully ignorant of many things which I am qualified to do,” the man reaches out, curls a fist carelessly in the smooth fabric of his nightgown. Dirk barely has the time to do more than let his lips tilt in the beginnings of a disapproving sneer before David is yanking him down roughly and crushing their lips together once more. He tastes of brandy and smoke, a heady mix that bursts against Dirk’s tongue, heavy, cloying, near intoxicating as his tongue forces its way into Dirk’s mouth. But, of course, he’s considerably more ready this time; Dirk wastes no time to slide his fingers into David’s hair and _pull_ , directing this kiss to something more favourable to him. He withdraws slightly to bite roughly at the man’s lower lip, and if it’s hard enough to draw the coppery tang of blood and turn both their mouths red once more? There is nothing wrong with that.

He ignores the sick feeling already settling in his stomach in favour of biting down again, just to feel David flinch beneath him. He feels more than hears the rumble of a groan in his chest, low and deep, though there’s soon other sensations to distract him- the slide of a calloused hand up the back of his thigh, rucking up both nightgown and dressing gown to expose the pale skin beneath, splattered with freckles and the occasional small scar.

“Such liberties you’re taking, Mr. Lalonde,” he manages to get out between kisses that are less than amorous, more chaotic bumps of lips and scrapes of teeth, slick tongues and a fight for possession.

“I only take that which is freely offered, and mine to begin with,” David murmurs in way of response, though he gives Dirk no time to parse through potential meanings, rather preferring to grab a handful of his rear and squeeze as if he were in fact entitled to it. “Huh. Firmer than one would expect, given how much sitting around you do on this arse of yours. Or the abuse it gets weekly.”

“Unlike you, Mr. Lalonde, I tend to keep fit rather than poison myself with drink and other questionable substances from the colonies. And despite what you term abuse, I’m near certain that unlike you, I’m a specimen of perfect health.” In retaliation, Dirk tilts his head down to drag his teeth along the column of David’s neck, digging them in just to leave a mark. One of several already there and fading, he notes with some distaste.

“You- ah! You wound me, brother.” That hitch in his breath, the _reaction_ , is only encouragement to Dirk; it’s a novelty, really, one which he intends to fully explore. He does it again, gratified when David practically keens under him, nails digging into supple flesh to leave what’s sure to be marks of his own, perhaps bruises, if he’s unfortunate.

“A small victory in and of itself,” Dirk remarks against his skin, even as his own fingers shift lower to yank his shirt from his breeches, nails scraping up just to see how David shudders beneath him. It’s intoxicating, really.

“Or perhaps the prelude to a larger defeat,” David counters, and Dirk barely has time to protest before their positions are reversed once more, with the other man pressed flush against him and Dirk sunk into the mattress.

“I’m the greater military strategist of the two of us,” he murmurs, shifting his thigh to press neatly between David’s legs- and he can feel his length, hard, hot, a noticeable bulge in those breeches. Surely, it must be uncomfortable at the very least, though Dirk has no intention of assisting him in that department; rather, he presses up harder, and the pained arousal that flashes across David’s face is precisely the reaction he wanted.

“I never bought that war hero shite, you know,” David smirks and leans down to steal another kiss, this one hot and searing, though no less violent than the last; it’s still all teeth and tongue, but it is David in control. Dirk is almost horrified to realize that he’s fond of it. “You whinged all the time when you were younger, ‘tis an impossibility that you could serve as a soldier.”

“How is it that you know what I was like as a child? You avoided me as soon as I begun learning now to walk,” Dirk retorts, and resettles his fingers in the man’s hair, letting his nails dig into scalp.

“Oh, yes, your tragic backstory- ignored by a brother, crying in the corner for years on end due to sheer sadness and a feeling of being so unwanted,” David says, mocking. A large hand slides down his body, and the sheer entitlement in it makes Dirk flush with both humiliation and indignation when David cups roughly at his crotch with a sneer. “You still turned out to be a sodomite and a slut, beyond that. And that was nothing to do with my influence, seeing as I apparently had none over you. Poor Colonel Strider.”

“Fuck you,” Dirk sneers back, yanking on his hair hard enough to make David curse, loudly. Disgraceful.

“I doubt your capability to handle me, given the fact that you’re quite well-reputed to prefer receiving.” His estranged brother practically croons, even as his hand wraps quite neatly around Dirk’s length, calloused and with a too-loose grip that provides nothing in the way of satisfaction. “Dearest brother, I’m afraid that if you want to enjoy yourself, you’re going to need to work for it.”

“Rut like an animal into your filthy hand, you mean? Quite unlikely, Mr. Lalonde,” Dirk says loftily, with all the bravado that he doesn’t feel.

“You know my name, you should use it,” is all he gets in return, along with a gradual tightening of his grip until it’s just bordering on the edge of painful, and Dirk has to squirm in an attempt to escape.

“And you should let go before you cause me any permanent damage,” he snaps, though the man simply chuckles lowly, gives one last squeeze before releasing him.

“Such a sharp tongue you have, brother dear. I do think it would do well making acquaintance with Sir John, certainly a better use for it than this. A dirk for Dirk, if I wished to be somewhat anachronistic.” David seems mildly contemplative, even as he rises to his knees to begin a somewhat ungainly shuffle towards Dirk’s face.

“You abhor anachronisms,” he replies, giving the man a look through narrowed eyes.

“So I do. And save your sour face for another, Colonel, especially since it remains naught but a token disapproval. We both know that you enjoy this very much, whether it be on your knees or someone astride you.”

“Based upon only your own words.” Dirk does need to defend himself, though he shifts uncomfortably, the truth of the assumption ringing with something like shame, and something like arousal.

“I ensure that everything I publish is based upon fact. It is, after all, my prerogative as a man of the people, a disseminator of news.” This, said almost absently as David works to remove his breeches, his length easily fished out. It’s hard, obviously, and Dirk can’t help but to compare with Jake; David is longer, though not thicker, and already there is dampness gathering at the tip, the entirety of it flushed an almost becoming red to mirror his eyes.

“Is that what you believe you are? Certainly, you have a talent for self-delusion,” Dirk answers, though he does not get a chance to say anything else, given that David’s member is very soon pressed against his mouth, the taste fairly familiar- sweat and skin, a touch bitter when he tongues at the slit almost on instinct.

“Excellent, you already know how this is done. You really are quite the little harlot, brother,” David murmurs, sounding enchanted, his eyes half-lidded and gleaming as he rocks his hips insistently, forcing Dirk to open his mouth wider. From then, it’s a slow but easy slide inwards and down, and even when Dirk attempts to protest for a breath, he insistently continues the push. A low groan rumbles in the air between them, a handsome flush spreading across David’s stubbled cheeks. It is as much a motivation to continue, to do better, as anything else.

Dirk steadies his hands on David’s thighs, digging his nails in to the surprisingly soft flesh as he works at slowly swallowing him down. It’s a stretch, naturally, and he has to fight not to gag a few times- David there provides some entirely unhelpful taunts. But he’s soon able to achieve it, building up a rhythm as he bobs his head, savors the slick slide of hot flesh against his tongue, the carved-out path of a vein along the underside and the now steadily-flowing bitter liquid dripping from the tip. David, for his part, only gets continually louder, curling his fingers in Dirk’s hair in order to pull him closer, until his face is practically crushed to the wiry hair trailing down his belly.

He digs his nails in harder, leaving white crescents behind, before David finally relents and pulls back, slow and smirking, so that Dirk can gulp down a breath. He coughs a few times, giving the man above him a baleful look, and only receives a slow widening of that catlike smirk in return.

“I do know it’s larger than your usual fare, but I’m certain the two of you will be very good acquaintances,” David says, impatient and crass as ever, before yanking Dirk closer once more. “I’m certain you’ve consumed half the air in this room by now, surely you can get back to work.”

“And I’m certain that you’ve spoken enough, yet you still refuse to stop talking,” Dirk grouses, before he does, in fact, get back to work. It’s with considerably more determination, this time; evidently David’s resigned himself to some modicum of patience, and so Dirk takes it to familiarize himself properly. He runs his tongue all along the sides; wraps his lips around the head of it and sucks, tongue probing at the slit to lap up every little droplet that oozes from it, bitter though they may be; slowly slides right back down onto it, sucking along the way and hollowing his cheeks near obscenely, his lips pinked and puffy as he goes, flicking his eyes up to meet his brother’s now-heated gaze, gauging and cataloguing every single reaction.

David looks a mess above him, his chest heaving and breathing heavy, low groans leaving his lips and his back arched, hips rocking almost helplessly, mindlessly to seek pleasure. To have this much power over another, over _David_ , despite the position, is a triumph of itself. Addictive.

“That’s- that’s enough,” David finally says, his voice a little rough and shaky, as if he’s but moments away from coming undone. If Dirk were capable of smirking up at him, all smug victory, he would. Though he supposes that he manages to convey what he wants nevertheless. He manages a coy pout when he’s pulled off unceremoniously, clearing his throat a few times.

“And here I thought you were enjoying yourself.” Dirk doesn’t offer information as to his own arousal, concealed somewhat in the folds of the pushed up nightgown, though there’s almost certainly a growing spot of moisture in the thin fabric.

“Your skills are surprisingly impressive, but then I suppose you’ve had quite a bit of practice,” David answers carelessly, before shifting to sit back on the bed. “Be a darling, will you, and remove that gown of yours.”

“Why should I? It isn’t as if you have any particular interest in what lies beneath, only a perverse desire of your own making,” Dirk says. He does, however, shrug off his dressing gown, letting the thicker fabric pool at the floor.

“This cannot be done with only one person, you know. You’re as complicit in this as I, and a fool if you think you can pretend otherwise. Especially not when there is abundant evidence that you’re enjoying it.” David reaches over, easily sliding a hand back up along Dirk’s thigh once more, giving his length a lazy stroke that brings a moan to Dirk’s lips. “Precisely like that. Now, as I said before, you will need to take it off for the next part. I won’t have my view of your admittedly fantastic posterior exposed.”

“I’m not sure what I find more repellent,” Dirk begins, and his fingers remain steady as he begins to pull the fabric over his head and off, “The fact that you have been observing my posterior, or the fact that all the rumors about it stem from you. Though I do think the forethought of this on your part is particularly disturbing. How long have you wanted this, hm?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” David huffs out a derisive chuckle before rummaging around in the pockets of his breeches, pooled around his knees, and retrieving a small vial of what appeared to be oil. The breeches were discarded soon after, along with his boots and socks, thankfully. His shirt, open down past his collarbone, is summarily pulled off and discarded, along with the half-folded nightgown that Dirk managed to remove.

“Someone needs to, and I refuse to let your petty attacks on my good name do damage to my own pride,” he answers with a brief frown, reclining on the cushions. David’s eyes roam across his body, hungry, taking in freckles, scars, and hair alike, lingering on a faint one around his neck from a very near miss of a knife to his throat. There is something like a frown on the man’s face- no doubt attempting to concoct another slanderous tale as to its origin, rather than the truth of battlefield chaos and a near escape. Muskets, after all, are no help in close range. He reaches out as if to touch it, and Dirk swats his hand away easily, with David recoiling almost as if burnt.

The other’s body is certainly surprisingly muscular, well-sculpted, with hair and scars of his own, though those are most likely of a far less auspicious origin. Hair curls on his chest and down his belly, his arms well-formed and fingers nimble, with an admittedly pleasing softness along his stomach and thighs. Dirk has yet to build up that layer himself, though it’s been years since he’s been remotely associated with active duty and the necessity of a physical fitness regimen.

“Relax, brother. I’ll have a hand wrapped around your throat soon enough, after all,” David remarks easily, and tosses Dirk the vial in a fluid motion. His attempt to catch it is far from graceful, though he blames it on the lack of warning. “You take care of the necessary preparation, Colonel. I do believe this is a show I would greatly enjoy.”

“How lazy you are, making me do all the work.” Dirk uncorks it nevertheless, shifting some to make himself comfortable. He is vaguely aware of David moving to sit near the foot of the bed, watching intently with that same infuriating half-smirk curling his lips. Dirk wants to wipe it off his face, be it with fists or lips, but he stifles that along with any vestiges of self-consciousness, letting his eyes close as he lets the liquid fall onto his fingers to warm before he slides that hand down between his legs to tease at his hole. Certainly a taboo, beyond that, in fact, but a most enjoyable experience when done right.

One finger presses in easily enough, and is then followed by another, and Dirk can only hear the sound of his own breathing, heavier than normal, feel the pounding of his heart and the throbbing of his length. This isn’t enough, but he finds himself wanting to put on that show. And so he spreads his legs wider, letting one bend at the knee as he carefully adds a third- too much, too soon, but he opens his eyes to see David watching, transfixed and working his own member with an unhurried hand, hears the man’s sharp inhale and stream of barely-coherent words on the exhale. He spreads and curls them, seeking that spot inside him, that smooth ridge of skin that makes him bite down a moan and sends a jolt of pure pleasure through him.

“Enough,” David says abruptly, as Dirk starts rocking against his own hand. He simply raises an eyebrow in response, mocking, and repeats the motion, though he adds a somewhat exaggerated groan for emphasis. “I rather think you’re enjoying yourself too much. On all fours for me, brother, since you seem quite adamant on being selfish.”

Dirk complies, eager now and less likely to protest after being interrupted; his loins are heavy with need, his own length flushed and ready, the tip slick with collected fluid, a few beads of which spill down. The position feels more vulnerable, with David behind him and Dirk spread open and waiting already, almost entirely at his brother’s disposal.

A sharp crack of skin against skin startles him, along with the flash of pain that follows it not a second later; Dirk is caught by surprise, unable to stifle the gasp that tears itself from his throat. When he turns back to look at the offender, David is simply humming in approval, looking unbearably satisfied with the reddening ass presented to him.

“It was an opportunity I had to take,” is what the man offers by way of explanation, repeating the action once more to see how Dirk flinches. “And you can consider those compensation for lost childhood punishments, since you seem to be craving them so badly.”

“It is far too late for you to make amends, though I sincerely doubt that you would ever want to. Or even begin to believe that you have wronged me,” Dirk bites out, and receives another slap for his apparent impudence. It’s patronizing, humiliating, really, to be treated as a child, but the discomfort is what David wishes to inflict on him, and so he bears it. The fact that he enjoys it, is of course never going to be mentioned to his brother, who suspects it anyway given that Dirk is flushed redder and squirming.

“I should have bent you over my knees for this, I think,” David muses, though another hit does not come. Dirk cranes his neck to see why, and his heart pounds loud when he sees that David is currently slicking himself up, the oil gleaming on his shaft in the candlelight. His mouth goes dry, a frisson of doubt, the beginnings of a panic, start to flare up. Only to dissipate entirely at the first touch of the wet, blunt head, unbearably hot against his hole.

And begins to push in.

Dirk’s fingers curl into fists, clutching uselessly at the sheets as David slides in deeper, his lips parted and breath coming in pants, his eyes screwed shut and head hanging down. He can hear the labored breathing of his brother behind him, little muffled curses and groans, praise of being so tight, feeling so good. It sends blood flowing due south, his member twitching from where it juts up towards his abdomen. The press in seems to go on forever, until it stops, leaving Dirk impaled and gasping, the low burn of too-much conflicting with the lovely feeling of being so full, regardless of his distaste for the man in question.

 

There is very little in the way of a build-up, no prelude after David sinks in to the hilt and his breath is pushed right out of him. Only a small moment of grace for adjustment; a brief, shallow roll of the man’s hips, before David begins fucking him in truth, withdrawing almost entirely and leaving a terrible sort of emptiness in his wake, and then pushing back in a single stroke. He’s ungentle; these are the movements of a man determined to take his pleasure, who knows precisely how to do so, who savors this join and heave of bodies, the scent of sweat and arousal heavy in the ear, the soft creaks of the bed mingling with moans and groans for an aria he adores. Naturally, though, David ruins it by speaking.

“Look at you, all spread out beneath me on all fours like the cheapest whore a shilling could buy,” David pants, and Dirk’s face flushes red with the debasement of it, made worse by its truth. His words are punctuated by flesh slapping against flesh, the low curling of pleasure heavy in his gut and the burn of being filled to the brim. “And still, you want more? Is this what you ask that English boy for? Is this what you let him do to you?”

Dirk can only nod, the words near forced out of him by dint of just feeling so full, his fingers curled tight in the sheets as he struggles to support himself. David’s hand is a vice on his hip, tight and sure to leave fingerprint bruises the next day, but Dirk finds that he cares very little.

The only sounds in the room are David’s groans and mumbled words, half-insult and half-praise that has Dirk arching his back as if to plead for more, pressing his hips back to meet the other’s thrusts. He basks in the light of the man’s attention, so rarely bestowed, even though it now takes the form of David’s length in his arse and a hand wrapped carefully around his throat, more of a promise that sends his blood running hot than a threat.

“A shame, really, that he won’t want you anymore after this,” David leans over to whisper this into his ear, forcing Dirk to bear both their weights as their bodies press together. He shudders at the thought, managing to murmur a half-formed protest. “Your own brother, really? And to enjoy it so much, too. Don’t worry, brother dearest, I won’t be putting this in any of my work. But I could, and isn’t that the interesting part? The danger of it, really, that you crave. Always flirting the line between secrecy and discovery, thinking that you can run circles around all others because you’re so clever- oh, how wrong you are about this, Dirk.”

The hand around his throat squeezes, prevents a retort, and Dirk can only turn his head to claim a kiss that’s more a bruising collision of wills than anything loving, affectionate. One which David eagerly returns, teeth catching at his lower lip in retaliation for earlier, biting down enough to send a confusing flash of pain to mingle with pleasure in a way that Dirk had no idea he would enjoy.

There is no set rhythm, no pace to which he can adhere to, only a continuous onslaught of sensation; David varies speeds, depths, angles with all the proficiency of a maestro, and Dirk, disgustingly enough, is but his instrument singing a whore’s chorus accompanied by the slut-song creaks of the bed.

“Ah, if only I could listen to this at will,” David sighs, dramatic as ever, even as he manages to press against that spot inside of Dirk that has him nearly keening in pleasure. “Just like that. I wonder, brother, do you think that you could have anyone else, after this? Be satisfied with your continued clumsy fumbling with the English boy? After all, I know that he cannot give you this, and yet this is clearly what you crave so badly.”

“I think that you have too lofty an opinion of yourself, and have clearly overestimated your abilities,” Dirk retorts, though much of the vitriol is sapped by the fact that his voice is breathy, half the words moaned out. He can feel David’s smirk against his neck, just before teeth sink into the pale skin there, just below the scar. A hot tongue slides out, wetting the skin as the man sucks what is sure to be a dark purple bruise into it.

“I think that you are simply deluding yourself to accommodate your pride. An unfortunate shortcoming as I have ever seen,” David answers, and snaps his hips forward, driving Dirk’s ready answer right off his lips, leaving him practically seeing stars. Seemingly well-attuned to Dirk’s responses, David focuses a series of hard, sharp thrusts there, rough and steady, with no time for Dirk to recover or catch his breath. He’s aware of how embarrassing he must sound, must seem, mewling for more at every movement, his exhales more moans than anything else, his breath coming in peals and his face flushed red, body slick with sweat and his length straining between his legs. He is agonizingly close already, built up and drawn thin from the weight and the relentless movements, all designed to take him to the edge and simply leave him there without satisfaction.

But he refuses to give David the pleasure of hearing him beg, and so Dirk holds out, even as his groans get louder, the movements of his hips more desperate as he seeks his climax. And all through that, David murmuring in his ear, calling him the perfect whore, saying how beautiful he is like this, coming apart, shattered. He’s _aching_ for it, now, though David is the one who finds his release first, movements stuttering to something frantic and without rhythm, rutting against him until he freezes, buried root deep, and spills hot and messy inside Dirk, drawing it out with shallow and wholly unsatisfactory rocks of his hips. Dirk is almost certain that tears of frustration are going to spring to his eyes at any moment, and it’s only when David, in a bout of surprising selflessness, reaches down to wrap a hand around his length, stroke it once, then twice, that Dirk comes, his vision whiting out at the edges and a groan strangling itself in his throat.

He nearly collapses under both their combined weight, David’s hand slick and still coaxing him through it, until it starts to hurt, makes him flinch away with a muffled curse.

“There we go,” the man drawls out, smug and content as he rolls off of Dirk to lay on his side. Dirk gracelessly falls onto his stomach, his breathing still labored and his body entirely unwilling to move, watching as David contemplates his filthy hand and then simply licks it clean, the action sending a thrill through Dirk. Though it certainly is not enough for him to show any more signs of interest, after that. “You look so much better like that, brother, all relaxed and fucked out.”

“How many times do I need to request that you use my name?” Dirk asks, though annoyance is the furthest thing from his tone.

“If you ask nicely, I am certain that you could convince me,” David smirks, and before Dirk can shift away to at least begin a cursory clean-up, he slings an arm around him to hold him close.

“What is it that you are attempting to achieve, here?” A few testing wriggles shows that escape is not to be easily found, and Dirk sighs, accepting his fate for now. He supposes he can slip away later on, if necessary.

“As I stated earlier, I came to visit you,” David says in another frustrating non-answer, the maintenance of his lies absolutely galling.

“This is what you call a visit?” Dirk raises an eyebrow, gesturing lazily to them both. David shrugs in response, only shifting closer to tangle their legs together. The man seems far more relaxed than Dirk has ever seen him before, strangely content.

“Come to the theatre when you are in town, to see my next show. I can provide a seat in the Royal Box, if you wish,” David murmurs, his voice low and syrupy with sleep. Dirk remains silent; he can still feel his brother’s seed dripping down his inner thighs, and though the afterglow is slowly stealing away, the residual pleasure, that feeling of being incandescently content, of being _known_ and taken apart, lingers. David does not say anything more after that, the arm slung around Dirk loosening as he falls into slumber, but Dirk lies awake until the candles burn out, the comfort bitter on his tongue.

\--

**_ coda _ **

The morning dawns grey and unpleasant, the room silvered in the early twilight between sun and moon, day and night. Dirk awakens slowly, categorizing the unpleasant stiff, stickiness along his legs and groin, the weight of limbs that are not his own, and, when he turns, David's face, lax with sleep. Dread and shame curl low in his stomach, and Dirk begins the task of slipping free- easier than expected, since the other appears to remain fast asleep. Not even cannon fire would wake him, Dirk's sure. 

He dresses quickly, efficiently, cleaning himself off as best he can with only a wet cloth. His things are already packed, and he finishes penning the note to Rose and Roxanne, thanking them both most courteously. He can send for his things later, he's certain; it is best to leave now, before anyone awakens. 

Dirk casts a single glance at his brother's slumbering form, a sneer curling his lips downwards for a second before he slips out the door. When David awakens in the morning, he doesn't intend to be there.

**Author's Note:**

> That one line belongs to Jane Austen entirely, and shout-out to @quenive: Happy birthday, man, and thanks a bunch for letting me complain and bounce ideas off you for this one :)  
> Hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> (Here's the site I used for the dick slang http://timeglider.com/timeline/194b572e19fd461b ).
> 
> Chat with me on tumblr at @quixxotique if you want.


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